


"Why would you even ask me that?"

by Artemis_Dreamer



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Confession, Drabble, Humor, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post War, Rated to be Safe, excessive sarcasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 04:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9106477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Dreamer/pseuds/Artemis_Dreamer
Summary: His processor hadn't been on the battle around him, but had instead been focused on his greatest foe. On one specific part of his greatest foe. The Decepticons had lost that battle because Megatron had been preoccupied with staring at Optimus Prime's aft.---In which Optimus wishes that Megatron was more romantic - or at least more tactful.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Does this count as crack?

Megatron tapped his stylus idly against the edge of his datapad. It seemed that he had reached an impasse in his writing. There was simply no feasible way to describe the events of the Polyhexian Energon Refinery Coup as anything other than a humiliating loss. 

A thoroughly humiliating loss, for which he was entirely to blame. His fault in the matter was something that the warlord was barely willing to admit to himself, never mind to the countless mechs that would undoubtedly read his autobiography. 

Chronicling his function was proving to be more difficult than he'd anticipated, particularly when it came to the events of the war. An embarrassing number of Decepticon losses were directly attributable to his own failures of command, and incompetence was decidedly not the image he strove to present to his readers.

The Refinery Coup, for instance, had seen a failure of troop distribution. The Decepticon soldiers that defended the loading bay doors had been in need of reinforcements, lest they be overrun by Autobot forces. Megatron had failed to issue the necessary command, a command which would likely have secured their victory.

(Or at very least staved off their defeat.)

The warlord knew full well why his leadership had lapsed. His processor hadn't been on the battle around him, but had instead been focused on his greatest foe. On one specific part of his greatest foe. The Decepticons had lost that battle because Megatron had been preoccupied with staring at Optimus Prime's aft. 

In his defence, it was an incredible aft. 

The warlord's relationship with the Prime was complicated, to say the least. He admired the mech's power, but refused to admit that he also admired the mech's frame. He had long desired the Prime as his own, but refused to admit that this desire was for anything more than a trophy, more than a prisoner of war. 

Megatron wanted, but refused to admit that he needed. 

“Are you still writing that nonsense?” The voice of Optimus Prime himself suddenly interrupted the warlord’s self-indulgent musings. Speak of Unicron.

Optimus had long since made it clear that he disapproved of the warlord's intent to compile an autobiography. Even as a self-published work, it would sell millions of copies, and would be read by Autobots and Decepticons alike.

Therein lay the problem. The war may have been over, but such a biased and inflammatory work of fiction could easily shatter their fragile truce between the factions. After all, a formal peace treaty had yet to be ratified.

"Yes, Prime," Megatron snapped. "I'm still writing. Just as I have been the last thirty-eight times that you've asked me." 

And if that infuriating Autobot could mute his vocalizer for a breem or two, he might actually make some frelling progress. What he wouldn't give for a private office right about now.

Unfortunately, the Prime seemed disinclined to be silent. "How many millennia of the war have you already fictionalized?" He asked, his tone thoroughly judgemental.

Oh, if only there was a way to mute that irritating mech. Permanently. A wicked thought entered the warlord's processor – a thought which he analyzed once, then twice, and momentarily discarded, before hastily re-evaluating it and ultimately choosing it as the most effective course of action.

(And by far the most amusing.)

"I've concluded the war era," Megatron lied. He had barely chronicled even a fifth. The look of sheer disbelief on Prime's faceplates was a treat to be savoured, but not nearly the payoff that the warlord was hoping for. He was looking forward to a far less pleasant reaction – a reaction of downright horror.

"In fact," the warlord smirked, "I've nearly concluded the worst of the post-war malcontent. I'm about to segue quite neatly into interfacing the Prime."

Optimus shuttered his optics with confusion. No such unseemly events had occurred. Was Megatron really so committed to slandering the Autobot name as to falsify intimacy between them in his own autobiography?

The warlord's smirk broadened hungrily, crimson optics bright with anticipation. A tipping point had been reached.

His pulsing EM field surged abruptly out of his control, emanating raw desire. He had spent far too long wanting this, needing this. His frame was making every effort to convey that need.

Sudden understanding dawned on Optimus as Megatron's ravenous field engulfed him. A segue into interfacing the Prime. Hilarious.

Optimus schooled his features into a disapproving glare, even as a rush of charge coursed through his frame, his field flaring desperately to meet Megatron's own. 

"Is that really how you intend to ask? By presuming to make my choices for me?" His tone was affronted.

The warlord had finally passed the point of no return. He had finally acknowledged their mutual desire - in the most nonchalant and uncaring way possible.

Optimus had imagined Megatron's confession more times than he cared to admit, but had never imagined anything remotely like this. Was this really the way his fantasies would be realized? With nothing more than a sarcastic quip? 

It was almost insulting. Almost. It was surprisingly difficult to focus on feigned annoyance while being buffeted from all sides by possibly the most powerful and lustful EM field that he’d ever felt. He couldn’t stay angry, and Megatron slag well knew it.

The warlord smirked at the expression of sheer desire on the Prime’s faceplates - desire which also coursed through every inch of his own frame. “I’ll ask any way that I see fit, Prime. I sincerely doubt that you were expecting romance. Now, only one question remains - my berth, or yours?”

“Mine,” Optimus replied mulishly, trying his best not to sound petulant. It was none of Megatron’s business whether he’d expected romance.

(For the record, he hadn’t. However, he’d at very least been hoping for a genuine, sparkfelt confession, and perhaps an apology. In retrospect, that may have been unreasonable.)

The warlord’s smirk broadened again. The great Optimus Prime could be remarkably petty when he was in a foul mood, but it hardly mattered. An overload or two would soon correct the problem. A few more overloads would make him considerably more tolerable. A dozen or so might actually render him likable. From there, it would only be a few dozen more before they either fell into stasis lock or fell in love.

Either way, it was going to be an incredibly long and incredibly pleasurable night. 

(He was right.)

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally turned a cheesy pick-up line into a giant robot love confession. I'm not even sorry.
> 
> Any and all feedback is appreciated.


End file.
